


The Mentor

by Zhie



Series: Seamstress Remix [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor continues his studies as Rumil's apprentice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mentor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zopyrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Seamstress](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/48023) by Zopyrus. 



> This was a delightful project to work on. All of the stories I had to choose from were lovely and it was a hard decision to narrow it to three to dissect, let alone one to actually use. Thank you for letting me play in your sandbox, Zopyrus.
> 
> The challenge being, to remix it in a way I'd write it, 90% of my fics are Bunniverse, and, so, this is, too.

Much changed for Macalaurë in a short time. The lazy summers spent with two or three cousins and his brothers on their Grandfather’s estate were now grand reunions where he lost count of how many relations he had. There was even an uncle younger than he, whom he had first mistaken for one of his aunt’s children. It was at one such gathering that the question of his future was suddenly up for debate, and without his prior knowledge, so that when the affair was over, he found he was to apprentice with the great sage Rúmil. At first, it had seemed that the decision was really up to him, but in private, his father made it known that the choice had already been made.

“I have no more I can teach you,” explained his father sternly when they returned home and Macalaurë offered protest. “Rúmil was my mentor once. This is not a punishment,” he scolded as Macalaurë bowed his head. “You know how to play, but you must learn how to perform. You have memorized notes, but it would do you well to know how to write the language of the music, for those who come after you.” 

Fëanáro was pacing, and perhaps he, too, was nervous about the decision. “There is so much more you can learn from him. He keeps many scrolls and documents which have yet to be translated. You can convert Sarati to Tengwar, yes, but can you really read the original Sarati? Even if you can read it, can you understand it? You want to be a poet. I will not have anyone in this house do anything half-way. You will be the best poet ever, the pride of the Ñoldor. The pride of Valinórë,” he amended. “For that, you must go to Rúmil.” Those were the final words on the matter.

Life with Rúmil was certainly different from the life he left behind. There were no worries that one of his harp strings were missing because Tyelkormo had taken it for his bow, or too much noise from the younger children for him to hear himself practice. There was always time to play, and always time to converse, and while Macalaurë slept little, he still felt invigorated each day. 

Just like his father and his Grandmother before, Macalaurë was a quick learner. He completed assignments before they were due, and practiced more than Rúmil required. After Rúmil decided that Macalaurë was serious about his pursuits, things like deadlines and minimums were done away with. In a short time, it was evident to Macalaurë that his father had been right to send him away, for his compositions improved beyond Macalaurë’s own expectations. His diction was better, his voice was stronger, and he felt no longer like a child looking for the reassurances and accolades of his father, but like a man who was seeking the knowledge and acceptance of his peers.

He also gained familiarity of other types of harps. The pedal harp favored by the Vanyar was a grand piece in Rúmil’s home, and he was instructed to try it the first day he arrived. It was too large for travel, so all practice was done at the center of Rúmil’s home, and often with an audience. It was the audience that was more difficult to overcome; Macalaurë was playing full songs on the musical masterpiece within three hours. There was also the hook harp that his Ñoldorin kin oft used. Rúmil appeared amused that Fëanáro had not chosen this type to train Macalaurë. All the same, it took little time for Macalaurë to understand the differences between them and how each had its own uses. Rúmil had other names for each of the harps from a time before each tribe laid claim to one or another. He taught these words to Macalaurë, with reminders that words change over time. It was a lesson well-learned, except in one instance.

“It is not Míriel Serindë,” Macalaurë said pointedly one day when they were having tea and reflecting on the many accomplishments of Fëanáro. It was obvious that Rúmil was fond of Fëanáro’s work, and of the time Fëanáro spent as one of his students. Also clear was Rúmil’s friendship with Fëanáro’s mother, and the loss he still felt. Still, Macalaurë could not hold his tongue. “It is Míriel Þerindë.”

“It was once,” replied Rúmil. “Times change. Words change. I have adapted to your father’s improvements upon my alphabet; I have adapted, as well, to the changes in pronunciation. While I respected many of her opinions, your Grandmother was a stubborn historian, but I move with the times. She was unable to sway me with her opinion, and neither will you.”

“Stubborn though she may have been her resistance to change was not merely due to being obstinate.”

“Go on,” prodded Rúmil, for it was one of the few times he had heard Macalaurë speak so passionately about a topic.

“It was to honor fallen kin. To remember those left behind.” Macalaurë set his tea down on the table. When he next spoke, his hands moved as well, quite similar to the gestures his father made when trying to win an argument. “When she left the old world behind, she knew she was leaving friends, even family, and that if ever we should reunite, so much might be forgotten that our difference in languages might make us strangers. Perhaps even enemies,” he added forcefully.

“And what say you?” asked Rúmil softly. “Do you long for a reunion with those left upon the other shore?”

“Yes.” Macalaurë shut his mouth and lowered his hands. Until now, he had not considered it. Until now, he would not have had an answer. It took but a moment to make up his mind, and now that the seed was planted, the idea grew ever in his mind from that moment on.

Rúmil stirred his tea slowly during the silence that followed. “Then you have chosen well,” he finally said. “There will always be a need for poets and minstrels, and a few differently pronounced syllables will be no detriment to your performances. I have no doubts that your songs will bring forth tears from kings and peasants alike.” 

“I do not seek to make them weep,” Macalaurë said warningly. “I want to make them understand.”

The spoon was set aside and Rúmil lifted the cup to his lips with a bewildered sort of smile. “Your grandmother could never take a compliment either,” he finally said.


End file.
